Sleeping on our Backs

the broken bell still chimes when struck.

even as split hammers fail to resolve their dichotomy.

the setting sun floods the sky. with its temporary apocalypse.

a million little ends that eventually become tomorrow.

time injects its medicine. as if life is a disease to be cured.

the vacant chairs collect their shadows. as the table waits for us to sit.

there is the meal. all the dead things we take as nourishment.

even as they overwhelm us.

the pencil marks linger on the corners. as we attempt to draw our maps.

ambivalent arbiters in a negotiation of abandoned skin.

the table trembles as our empty plates exhale.

diligently calculating the cost of our hunger.